Fate and Forbearance: Power and Prophecy
by Italian Empress 1985
Summary: The new sovereigns of Ferelden have their work cut out for them. Amidst an arranged marriage, exasperating politics and the rebuilding of their country, a new threat is looming. A dark ritual performed to save their lives, did not turn out as planned, and now an evil Old God has been reborn . . . with all the old hatreds. Part 2 of 3.
1. Prologue: Gates of the Damned

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only._

**Words From the Author:**_ I've been far and away I know. I've become my father's Power of Attorney to deal with some family issues, and I've taken on editing as a side job and am in the last stages of editing an entire book for a new writer to try and get published. I don't think I'll take on quite that level of activity again, as it left no time for Thedas and I missed it so. I wanted to wait until that editing was completely done, but I just couldn't. My hands were literally twitching to write._

_In the interim, until the complete chapter one is finished, I thought I'd at the very least publish the prologue, and am in fact thinking of jostling things around or adding something new to 'Hatred and Heritage' for a prologue, as I'd like each part to have one, though only part three will have an epilogue. So while this is short, the rest of part two will have the same chapter length that previous readers are used to._

_The Avaari tribesman herein speak their own language, and I concocted what words of theirs I did use. Though for the sake of the story, most of the time they'll speak Common (English) on the page at least, so you can understand it. Like the Chasind and Clayne (who I don't know much about) they formed off the remaining tribesman of the ancient Alamarri Clans, and make their homes in the foothills of the Frostback Mountains, and don't interact with the world outside their tribe very often, though they're an intelligent people and understand the world at large. I had a feeling that when they spoke Common, it'd be similar to Morrigan, overly-refined because they didn't quite grasp the subtleties of the language. The tribe leaders are in fact, called Jarls, I didn't steal that from 'Skyrim' but are bit different than their Elder Scrolls counterparts. They also refer to the Fereldans we're used to, as such, but not themselves, as they consider themselves to be apart from the Ferelden that was formed outside their own culture._

_They also, as per this story canon, know quite a bit more about the Old Gods than the more 'civilized' Fereldans, as their own histories weren't diluted over the years by Chantry doctrine and they still worship the Old Gods, giving them their own names. Which is how I ascertained that Uvolla was Lusacan, and wound up giving Urthemiel an Avvar name in addition to the one bestowed on His Unholiness by the Tevinter Imperials._

_Things get a bit tricky there, because you have what the Chantry believes and preaches, what the Imperials believed and tried to do with the Old Gods, and what the Avvars continue to believe. Those three trains of thought do run on the same track sometimes, but there are other times, where they don't. The Avvars think they're right, the Chantry thinks they're right, but neither one is entirely right or entirely wrong._

_Also, as the story progresses, I'll be getting the ancient elves' involvement with the old gods, what I could finagle around and weed out of codex, content and some in-game mysteries. It is by no means canon, but I think it'll blend decently enough later down the road. However, for now, its just a tease._

_If you are new to 'Fate and Forbearance', welcome! And not all my author's notes are THIS long, but I do explain a lot in them. As continuing readers can tell you, I take canon and make it my own, so while things in this story are largely supportive of the major points of canon, I do sometimes tweak it to what I prefer for the sake of storytelling versus game progression._

_For returning readers, its good to share your company again! I appreciate your continued interest and patience more than I can say, and you don't know HOW thrilled I am to be writing again and entertaining you. It is, as always, my most humble pleasure._

_I can't promise when Chapter One will make it out of my mind, as I'm still hoofing it along with my editing and family concerns, but we're back in business ladies and gentlemen. So ready or not . . . here we go!_

_Thank you for stopping by, and watch out for low flying dragons._

* * *

_**Prologue:**_

**Gates of the Damned**

* * *

_"Get back which used to be, you'll suffer unto me."_

_- __Metallica_

* * *

**"E**ognan!" The younger of two Avvar brothers called out ahead, his hide boots making nary a sound on the carpet of pine needles underfoot. "I think we should go back!"

"Our father is Jarl of all Ganae Hold, and the Alpin Tribe is the greatest of the tribes because of it. Do we crawl like cravens, then? Or do we prove ourselves as men?" Eognan beat a single curled fist against his chest, above his heart. A shock of red hair matched the fire in his soul, and that of his brother's own head, but they were nothing alike.

They were two years apart, but both were considered to be nearing manhood. Ciniod had seen fifteen years, and Eognan had breached the confinements of seventeen. Yet because of their father's standing, they were not allowed to participate in the hunting of the cave bear. It was a trek deep into the heart of the Frostback Mountains, well beyond the safety of their hold, but a necessary right of passage, for those young men who sought to have their first wife. For the two eldest sons of Jarl Alpin, however, the brothers had to follow their prayers to Korth the Mountain Father, He who the thieving Imperials had once called Dumat.

If they were true in their belief, an answer would come and their own path for manhood would be laid out before them.

Ciniod had prayed and prayed, his mother's reassurances lending him patience, but Eognan would not have it. The eldest brother had a thirst for success, that wouldn't be quenched, and thought to find a way without Korth, whose silence gave him irritation in place of his sibling's patience.

So they found themselves trekking across the evergreen forests and hillocks of the lower Frostbacks. A week had seen them out, and though their father would be angry upon their return, no one would come looking, as Avvars were expected to take care of themselves.

They were taught at an early age that they were the true descendants of the Alamarri, from whom they had long ago splintered, into their own people and the sister clansmen of the Chasind and the Clayne. As such, they could not ask for help as their Chasind and Clayne brothers would, mewling at the Fereldans for aid. Ash Warriors did not mewl, High Priests did not mewl, and the sons of Jarls did not mewl.

But Ciniod grew fretful as they continued on, not liking their destination to begin with and liking it even less the closer they drew. "Why must it be_ here_, brother? A week and you have not said. Why not the Temple of Lusacan? The Lady of the Skies is a much saner choice."

"Lady Uvolla has no more voice than The Mountain Father and I will not wait for them. The Fereldans and their Maker can take them, as far as I care!" Eognan returned succinctly, tromping ahead with heavy footfalls of someone that had grown irritated.

Ciniod's lip curled. "You speak blasphemy! You will_ never _receive a sign from the gods, with your heart so bitter!"

"But I_ will_," Eognan smiled in his certainty. "Because no one comes to the Gates anymore, little brother. No one else cries to The Undying for an answer. He will hear our voices, without competition."

"No one comes, because it could be their death! Great Father Korth forsook His brother, because He knew that Urthemiel's godly heart was even more hateful than yours! He drank the souls of Avaari children, and stole away our women and killed them with His seed!" Ciniod battled with a fir branch, shaking the needles from his hair as he growled at his brother.

"A blasphemer you call me, but you use the Imperial's name for The Undying!"

"Then I will use ours, if it opens your ears! Lord Morgreth is fell and treble. He is the Undying because He takes the lives of our people, it's why we named Him the God of Death, and if He was locked away behind Galeas gun Grabain, it was for a reason! The Gates of the Damned are not meant to be opened!"

Both voices fell silent, their argument lost to the massive stone wall before them, the pines thinning out to open to the ancient boundary. Built long ago, it stood as a reminder of days gone beyond recollection, but for the stories to be told by the remaining stones.

Carvings of a very elven appearance, scrollwork and fancy runic symbols, decorated the massive stone pillars. No one knew why the elves, fond of ironbark and leather-craft, would extend their architecture to the ancient stone monstrosities found scattered throughout Thedas, but there were always stories.

A tale-weaver's best guess, and one that went a long way to entertaining a gathering group of children, eager for another story to tide them over until they were grown. The two brothers had been no different, in their toddling years, seated by the herbalist's tent, as she'd settle down on old bones, rasping voice building a tapestry of both history and fantasy, for eager young minds.

She'd spoken of some elves, seeking to regain their rapidly failing immortality, making pleas to the Old Ones to grant them the eternal life they so desperately wanted back, once their own gods left them behind. Most of the Old Gods had ignored these pleas, but for Urthemiel, who was struck by the fine appearance of the elves, and agreed to a trade. Their utter worship and devotion, for eternal life and beauty.

Though trading with Lord Morgreth was never anything to be taken lightly, and He was easily vexed. When His new servants disappointed Him, trying to strike out on their own, He didn't take away the immortality given them, but twisted it to His whims.

Now all that remained of those first elven servants were the guardians of His most sacred places, turned to eternal gargoyles, perched atop pillars and at entrances. Their beauty remained, immortal indeed, as it was petrified in stone.

Eognan looked up at two such gargoyles as they were carved in worshipful poses next to the twin pillars that marked the entrance to the Gates. He had heard that some Fereldans used gargoyles as decoration, but they were hideous, almost demonic looking things. Those chosen by Morgreth were lovely, if not a touch eerie.

Ciniod was careful in his steps, watching the effigies warily. "Old Braith said they can come to life at night, stone turned to flesh, to feast on the blood of the living. That's how they have stayed alive all this time." His voice was barely above a whisper, but his brother heard him, and scoffed.

"Braith also says that babies are found inside hollowed out tree stumps. Besides, you are too old to listen to that crone." Eognan tapped the head of a statue, passing by it. "These hardly look _alive_ to me."

"It'll be dark soon." The younger of the two wasn't convinced of their safety, 'too old' for nightmarish stories or not, as his eyes stuck to the statues, walking slowly behind his brother. "Why would Lord Morgreth turn them into this, only to decorate His places of worship?"

"Why do the Old Ones do anything? Because they _can_. You think too much, Ciniod, just take a deep breath and . . . " Eognan did just as he'd bade his sibling, in a gasp of awe.

Before them stood the huge Galeas gun Grabain, as the Avvars called them. The Gates of the Damned. Said to house Morgreth's creations, and the god's own eternal essence, as He kept a close watch on His servants. Of all the old places, that one was the closest mortals could come to speak with the God of Death.

The size of them was something to behold, an impenetrable dome of solid stone, smoothed and carved to perfection, defying the ravages of time. Its entrance marked by the gargantuan gates, more like doors, of onyx and obsidian. The fading sun struck them, lending them a strange luminescence against their dark glass-like surface . . . and they were open.

The brothers knew that wasn't suppose to be the case, and peering between that small opening, there was only darkness.

They looked at each other, both of them on edge then, and Eognan was the one to speak. "Maybe we are not the first to come here to commune with The Undying. There could have been others, maybe even other Jarls' sons."

"Or something has come_ out_." Ciniod supplied, eyes gone wide and fearful. "I . . . I want to go. We need to leave. This is not the place for us." He tugged at his brother's tunic, but was shrugged off.

"Coward!" Eognan snarled, moving forward. "I am not afraid of_ stories_, and I will not come this far, only to turn back. What does it matter that the Gates are opened? They are old, time could have moved them far easier than any fabled monster."

Ciniod would have pressed further, but he fell back on his haunches, screaming as something reached between the opened gates and grabbed his brother. Eognan shrieked, and disappeared into the darkness.

The sun had dipped below the trees, and shadows shrouded the open glade, lengthening around the Gates of the Damned like fingers, reaching for the fleeing Avvar.

He ran, not thinking of his brother, or what his father would think, or anything beyond getting out of there. A root tripped him up, and the young tribesman fell on his face, dirt smearing across cuts from the stony ground.

When he looked up, a pair of bedraggled legs were before him, and his eyes followed them fearfully up to the feral grinning creature standing there. Its appearance was just like the statues, except for the open maw, lines of sharp teeth grinding there until it smiled at him.

"What pretty thing is this, come to Lord Urthemiel? Does it cry? Does it frighten? Does it _bleed_?" It sniffed at him, voice ethereal and difficult to discern gender from. "Smells . . . human . . . smells like fear." The eyes were white and dead, paler than the lifeless face, pointed ears reaching up past a golden head. Its hair was the only thing of color, but for a trickle of dark red that spilled down its chin, staining those sharp teeth as it spoke.

Ciniod shook in his terror, more so that it was speaking in a language that he could understand. The worst monsters in stories, the most frightening, were those that were intelligent. He tried to get to his feet, tongue heavy in his mouth, managing to respond beyond his fright. "I know what you are!"

The elf-like creature smiled again, as if it were pleased. "Do you? I knew things once too, many, many things. _Too much_." It moved forward, stalking its prey slowly, as the boy crawled backwards on the ground.

"I . . . I know, and I am so sorry for what happened to you! My brother . . . my brother wanted to come here. _I_ did not, I never would disturb . . ." He pleaded, not noticing the Gates looming behind him, drawing nearer as he moved.

"Disturb? No, no there is no disturbance. There is no 'sorry'." It bent down, its body frighteningly devoid of the noise that accompanied normal movement. "There is only service to Urthemiel the Undying . . . _ always_."

Eognan's body was thrown from inside the dome, as another of the gargoyles moved forward, its feet malformed, almost like that of a werewolf.

His brother's dead eyes stared at him, throat torn open and still bleeding. Ciniod cried out, reaching for his sibling, when one of Morgreth's guardians reached for him, dragging him to his feet. It was unbelievably strong, hoisting the Avaari up above its own head.

"You seek Urthemiel's guidance, you seek His favor. But what do you offer? What do you give us? _This _one gave us_ nothing_." It nodded down, uncaring, at Eognan's body.

"I . . . I do not have anything! By all the Old Gods, I swear, I did not wish to be here! Please . . ." Not above beggary, Ciniod looked down at the thing holding him. It was indeed beautiful, even for the horror represented in its being. A perfect concoction of Morgreth Urthemiel, He who was beauty and death combined. The tribesman thought those things, even as he felt his own doom descending down upon him.

"Leave . . . this . . . boy. He is pure." A voice from the darkness within the dome, creeping out like the tattered voice of Old Braith. As it moved into the dusk outside, a new terror was made clear.

It looked like an emaciated woman, but for the blackened hole through the middle of her, and a half ruined face, a charred mess, the entire jaw dripping with dark ichor. Its voice was awful, but more female than the other creatures that held the Avaari. On that colorless forehead, remained the permanent markings that some older Avvar clans used to claim their gods.

That thing had been of Ciniod's own people once, and now it looked at him with eyes as dead as the elven gargoyles. "What are you?" The young man gurgled out fearfully.

"I am a bride . . . to His Most Holy . . . one of my . . . Lord husband's first . . . brides." Each word sounded like it was an effort, like breathing through smoke, and the stench of the thing accompanied that. An odor like old blood and burned hair, surrounding it, pouring from that ruined mouth as it spoke.

The walking gargoyles snarled at this new intrusion, not releasing their prey, but not acting as if they were going to eat him anymore. "Where is Lord Urthemiel? Why have His brides come amongst the guardians?"

Ciniod had the bizarre experience of curiosity mingling with terror, as he watched the three creatures talk amongst each other, like they had any understanding of normal interaction.

"His Greatness . . . has awakened. It is . . . why you have come to life again, Forsaken. It is why we have emerged . . . from behind the Great Gates." The thing tried to smile, a difficult task without lips, reaching up with a skeletal hand, the skin so tight and thin as to feel non-existent, as the 'bride' touched the Avaari's face. "This one is pure . . . this one has an aura of . . . magic. Deep inside . . . don't you . . . boy?"

Ciniod didn't know what she was talking about, but would have agreed to anything to save his life. "Yes . . . yes, whatever you want, I will give! My brother, he . . . please, I cannot leave his body, I cannot leave . . ."

"He is dead, and of no further use." One of the gargoyles, the creature the spindly female had called a 'Forsaken', turned, dragging Ciniod behind it, uncaring as the other one followed. The self professed bride trailed behind them, to leave the dead tribesman on the dirt where he lay. "You will go inside the temple, until Lord Urthemiel decides what to do with you."

"No! No, please . . ." Ciniod's shrieks echoed out into the evening air, as he was dragged into the darkness. Above the dome, a blood red moon peered out, looking down on the scene, and soon, all was silence.


	2. Chapter One: Still Standing

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only._

**Words From the Author:**_ Forgive me for the bit of exposition here, but its always a good bet that a story needs it when going into another book or part (as the case is here, though these scribbles of mine 'are' long enough to be books, aren't they? ;p ) Either as reminders to long time readers, or a quick update for new readers. That said, I don't personally care for exposition, so I tried to make it as brief and seamless as possible._

_I also made it quick so we could get back to Fergus, Gwyneth and Alistair, in short order. I don't know about you, but I missed them, and though it was a little difficult stepping back into their minds, I'm glad to be back in the saddle._

_You know what'd be awesome though? If I could do a 'Supernatural' style 'The Road So Far' exposition slide show with some ACDC music or something. Ah well, we'll have to settle for classic rock quotes down the road. ;)_

_Thank you for stopping by, and watch out for low flying dragons._

* * *

_**Chapter One:**_

_**Still Standing**_

* * *

_So maybe I've been walking a little wounded.  
A little banged up, but I'm still standing_

_- __Terri Clark_

* * *

**June 25'th, 9:31, Dragon Age**

**T**wo days had passed since Fergus Cousland had learned exactly what his sister and brother by marriage had done to secure their own survival.

On a rooftop in Denerim, months ago, they'd confronted an archdemon, a creature of myth made real and filled with the spirit of an old god. That too was thought to be a myth, but it wasn't, for that same old god, freed from the prison of the archdemon's skin, had been visiting Gwyneth Cousland in her sleep . . . until recently.

The new Teyrn of Highever could scarcely believe any of it was real, and shock kept him silent almost as much as his unwavering love for his baby sister. That either of the newly appointed royals would enter into such a dangerous agreement . . .

'_A deal with a maleficar? How did either Alistair or Gwyneth think that was a good idea?'_

Yet, there they were. A blood red moon heralding the 'rebirth' of one Morgreth Urthemiel, god of beauty and death. That had been something all on its own, and add to that the strange circumstances under which the three of them had found out.

Morrigan, the mage in question who was also apparently a close friend of Gwyneth's during the Blight, had appeared to the queen through a mirror, warning of her of what was to come . . . and heralding her own death, after which Urthemiel would be free. Though still without the full complement of his power, but it was a frightening thought all the same.

_'How does one defeat a god?'_

That was a question to which Teyrn Cousland didn't have the answer. What he _did_ know, was that theirs was a secret that couldn't be shared, and Gwyneth's heartbreak and terror over all of it left her in a vulnerable position.

Which is how Fergus found himself wandering his own city, looking for his sister.

Two days ago she'd seemed almost calm, upset, but still put-together. She'd taken the ring Morrigan had sent her for protection from Urthemiel's 'dream walking', and put it on a chain to wear as a necklace. Afterward, she'd told her brother everything, despite the king's objections.

Then she'd flickered out, like a lamp that had burned all its oil. She barely touched her meals, eyes wandering off to dark corners that neither her brother or her husband could see. Gwyneth had eaten less, but taken to drinking more wine, which Fergus was almost certain was laced with black lotus. The smiles she produced afterward could only exist, when all concerns were blurred by the lotus' promise to dull the world around her.

_"What are you doing about this?" King Alistair had asked him the day before, voice sharp and scolding._

_"About the same thing _you _are. I note _you _haven't spoken to her yet either." Fergus' gaze had wandered down into a nice mug of ale during that conversation._

_"She's your sister! I can't talk to her, you know that. She hates me, now." The king had looked dejected, but it was clear he honestly believed that to be the case. "When she looks at me, I know Gwyneth blames me for all of this. I can feel it."_

In fact, Fergus had seen Gwyneth staring at her husband with something akin to disgust, but unlike the sovereign, the teyrn wasn't entirely sure that disgust wasn't aimed inwardly. He could almost see it in her eyes. Though he wouldn't tell Alistair as much, he knew first hand that when you felt hatred for yourself, there was sometimes nothing that could be done, until you'd worked through it on your own. If he were to approach his sister in such a state, he might just make things worse.

Still, when she hadn't shown up for dinner at all that evening, both men had begun to worry. Alistair had his few knights out looking for her, so certain that she despised him enough that she wouldn't let_ him _near her. Fergus had sent out his own guards, but when hours had gone by with no result, the teyrn grabbed a borrowed cloak, forgoing his noble ornamentation for the sake of subtlety, and headed out onto Highever's streets.

His personal guards had wanted to attend him, but Fergus was determined to go alone. When he found his sister, and he was desperate to convince himself he would, it had to be without anyone else.

A light rain made the cobbled streets slick, pattering down on market stalls that had already shuttered up for the night. At such a late hour, only a few places would be open, such as the brothel Fergus passed. The lively music and chatter from inside made him shake his head.

No one had any idea of what could be lurking out there in the world, ready to devour their souls. That frightening red moon had been just that, an oddity that put people on edge for a short while, until they'd made up their own reasons for it. Portents of this and that, and none of them true. It wasn't as if they expected the teyrn to issue an official statement about it. They _couldn't_ know what he knew, but it felt surreal all the same.

The air smelled like fish and salt water, and outside the brothel doors, a bit of smoke and spirits. Fergus took a deep breath anyway, before he entered the clouds that permeated the whorehouse. It wasn't a place he was unfamiliar with, though as he'd gotten older, he preferred the entertainment and the feminine company to be had at the public house instead.

Still, some of the patrons and courtesans sent him sly looks of unspoken recognition, and he did naught but briefly incline his head, wringing out his damp cloak in the doorway before handing it to a woman just inside the lobby. He flashed his signet ring, a silent agreement to adhere to the privacy Fergus and his fellow nobles had long had in such places, and was allowed in without signing the books.

Clear jars filled with red dye were set before lamps, to cast a dim red glow to the room, looking a ruddy pink where it reflected against cigar smoke. Amidst the haze he could see the men gathered in the common room. Those of less coin, nursing tepid ales and wines, searching out which girl they'd prefer to spend the rest of their money on, while those with more than a few silvers, already had a wench warming their lap.

Fergus barely noticed them, intent on the back of the brothel; an archway covered by a thick dark curtain. A guard at either side eyed him warily, and again he held his hand out to show his signet ring. "Where we embrace the dark." The teyrn murmured the well known password, barely heard above the din, but the guards nodded and let him past.

In that place, titles were only sweet nothings to be whispered. They didn't matter much beyond that, and the coin that such names promised. Though promises were nothing without the funds to see them through. Yet, those who knew Fergus for what he was, gave him a wide berth, and those braver souls sidled up to him.

One buxom blonde purposely teetered close. "Oh pardon, milord, I was distracted by you. My, but your shoulders are _so wide_, I bet you'd keep me upright_ all _night." She smiled, a nice one considering she still had all of her teeth.

There was a nice fragrance about her too, and had Fergus not had another focus, he might've been tempted towards the distraction she offered, but there were other matters to attend to. "Not tonight, love, but here, go buy yourself and the girls a round, won't you?" He smiled, tossing her a gold piece, and went on ahead.

Highever had a few lotus dens, and Gwyneth's favorite was far nicer than_ that _hole in the wall, but Fergus had a feeling she wanted to forget who she was. There wasn't anywhere better than the Gilded Lady to do that in, where no one cared, as long as you paid well.

As he came around a corner, past a couple engaged heavily with each other against the wall, a wide room opened up. There wasn't much in the way of furniture, just a few tables, and a variety of large overstuffed pillows on the floor.

Reclined on them, in a cozy little corner, was his sister. Drunk off her ass and leaning heavily into a dark haired elf, who handed her a grape from an embellished platter, dropping it into her waiting mouth.

Before now, Gwyneth could be counted on to imbibe just enough to have fun, without impairing herself to the point of putting her reputation on the line. However, after what she was going through, Fergus wasn't so certain.

She was wearing a gown that fell off her shoulders enough to bare the pale line of her cleavage, her skirts nearly up to her knees beneath the elf's wandering hands. Her auburn curls were brushed back from her face as her companion kissed her neck, and she giggled, raising her wine goblet as a young woman came forward with a decanter to fill it.

Through the haze of lotus and smoke, somehow, she saw her brother, and smiled drunkenly at him. "Fergus!" Her voice sounded saccharine, and turned into an appreciative moan as her _friend _nipped at her earlobe. A sound that made his footsteps quicker, though she clearly didn't consider her honor at stake.

"Alright, little pup, I think you've had enough." He shot the elf a glare that was readily interpreted and he backed off, but not without a sulky glower.

"Didn't know the bird already had a cock in her hen house." He groused, but went to another patron easily enough.

Gwyneth pouted, but reached for her brother. "You're so _tall_. Come down here and have a drink with me." Her hands were clumsy as she reached for the hem of his tunic, trying to pull him down to pillows. In the end, he sat beside her willingly, letting her fall into him. "Better." She crooned, her breath soured from wine and black lotus, words slurred on her tongue. "Here . . " Gwyneth pressed the rim of her goblet against her brother's lips but he pushed her hand away.

"No, I think you've already had my share, and then some. Come, we need to get you out of here." He put an arm around her waist, trying to hoist her up, and though she stood, it was clear she wasn't going to be walking out of the brothel on her own feet. "Alright, up we go then." She weighed a lot more than she had as a girl, but Fergus managed to pick her up in his arms, the wine goblet carelessly spilling onto the pillows.

"Ooops!" Gwyneth giggled, licking the spilt wine from her hands where some of it had fallen. She smiled at her brother, resting her head against his shoulder, breath whispering against his ear. "To my rescue, again, my handsome brother. Am I your favorite? Am I your _best_ girl?"

Fergus felt his heart twinge with melancholy and love all at once. "Always." He kissed her forehead, moving forward with some effort, her skirts falling over his arm and feeling weighted there.

They passed the guards at the wide curtain without trouble, but once in the common room, Fergus was given a few leers from the patrons, those who didn't know it was his sister he was carrying. Feeling very uncomfortable and saturated with the debauchery of that place, the teyrn was only too glad when they got outside. So much that he'd forgotten his cloak, but once he realized it, Fergus had no desire to go back in after it.

Gwyneth had gotten quite heavy, in just that small distance, and as soon as Fergus saw a carved street bench, he set her down on it gently, making sure she didn't tip over.

She was investigating the neckline of her gown, if it could be called such with that low of a cut. "I've spilt wine on myself!" It might have been irritation, but instead she laughed, nearly falling onto the cobbles when she leaned too far over.

"Alright, why don't you just sit there while I catch my breath?" Fergus cautioned, setting her back upright as he took a seat beside her. He thought he might try to convince his sister of the folly of her nightly travels. In her state though, he wasn't likely to make much sense to her addled mind.

"Don't make go back to him, Fergus, don't make me!" The change in her tone was quick, but no less slurred than the rest of her words had been. She clutched at the lapels of his tunic. "I can't look at him!" She wailed, and to her brother's dismay, began to sob.

"Gwyn, sweet, I'm the last person to defend your husband, but he isn't_ that _horrible, and this mess isn't entirely on his shoulders." Fergus knew his words were useless, the lotus having blurred his sister's thoughts so much that anything resembling sense wasn't going to make a swath through the fog of her brain. That didn't keep him from trying.

"No, not him . . . _him_!" Her silver eyes had gone as wide as tea saucers, intense with their beggary. The words weren't that clear, but her terror was, and Fergus felt his gut seizing in pity when he realized who she was so determined to stay away from.

The teyrn looked about him, but the drizzle had sent most decent folk inside to drier comforts, and they were almost certainly alone for the moment. At least far more than they would be once he got his sister back to the manor home they were staying at. "Gwyn, your friend, the mage, she sent you that ring to keep you safe, and for the past two nights you've been fine when you wore it."

That did nothing to allay her fears, and she reached two fingers beneath her neckline, to Fergus' distaste, and pulled out a small sachet she'd apparently been hiding there. Before she could open it, and take the dried black petals out, Fergus snatched it away, even as his sister reached for the sachet again.

"Ah, ah, no. You've had too much already. You're lucky nothing happened to you, and it was stupid to come out here alone. Where's your damn cloak, for Maker's sake?" He hated how much his voice sounded like a masculine version of their mother, but Fergus couldn't restrain the reproach ready on his tongue.

"Cloak? Did I have one?" She burbled, eyes gone cloudy as her head swerved like a marionette.

Fergus shifted so her weight would fall into him, holding her close enough that he could feel her warmth through her clothes. She was burning up from lotus and wine, and probably wouldn't last much longer. "Andraste preserve us, if I can't even get you in the door . . ."

She slumped against him, breathing noisily but otherwise not making a sound. When her brother raised her face, her eyes were closed.

"Well, that's bloody marvelous, that is. Oh Gwyn, why did you have to do this to yourself?" Fergus knew the answer even as he asked it.

* * *

Another night spent alone, and King Alistair wasn't certain if he mourned the absence of his wife, what would've been her spot on the bed cold and empty, or if he was grateful. Gwyneth had said little after she explained their 'situation' to her brother, and what few words that did pass her mouth were absent of any emotion, but her eyes spoke volumes.

He'd almost thought they had made it back to the fragile but true camaraderie they'd had before their marriage, but those past few days, all that had fallen into ruin. Silver eyes narrowed on him across the table, whenever Gwyneth deigned to look at him at all, and when she had lain beside him the night before last, he could feel her withering gaze.

There was no way to know what she was thinking; there never was. He could only guess at what lay between what was spoken aloud and what remained silent. Alistair had never been very good at guessing games. Yet, he was left to them all the same, for there was no answer from Gwyneth's mouth and now she had taken to being absent more than just vocally.

She was back at the lotus again, and he wished he had the strength to keep her from it, and yet, the coward in him thought it was better that it dulled her anger at him. In spite of that, he wanted so badly to go look for her, but had to hope that Fergus would take the initiative instead. After all, Gwyneth didn't despise her brother, she never would.

It would always be Gwyneth and Fergus, last of the Couslands. Alistair knew there were aunts and uncles, and yet more cousins abroad that were related on the siblings' paternal side, but they considered themselves alone in Ferelden. It was probably true, when one looked at how they secreted their affection away for each other alone.

He felt that coil of jealousy biting at him again, and could recall a few nasty rumors he'd picked up, though he couldn't remember where. A little too much brotherly love from Lord Fergus, even after he'd been wed to Lady Oriana, in fact, he still saved his lances to receive his sister's favor in tournaments. _Cousland blood runs strong, and maybe their only way of loving someone, was to keep it 'in house'._

It disgusted Alistair to even hear things like that, and he'd blocked them out, but there in a room he should've shared with his wife, the king's mind wandered. Dark twisted thoughts that he hadn't considered before, found purchase in the vulnerability caused by loneliness and paranoia of what was to come.

Feeling irritable and useless, he went to where his wife kept her perfumes and tinctures, looking for black lotus to toss out a window. She'd be furious, but he didn't care, if it made her talk to him. He dumped one bag upside down, its contents spilling out onto the bedcovers as his hands moved over the items, sorting them apart to see what he'd uncovered.

No lotus. Just some hair combs, etched jars and the like, and a bundle of parchments bound together, a stick of cinnamon under the twine, probably to keep them smelling nice. Alistair paused, the parchments heavy in his hands, and debated. He could put everything back, and return to his place on the bed, mind scrambled and frustrated, or he could read them. They were probably nothing, just some official letters that Gwyneth hadn't gotten around to sharing with him, except they looked older than that. Some of them were showing signs of yellowing, the corners marked with small rips.

She'd be furious if she found out, but Alistair had a fit of pique and didn't give a damn. He eased one out from the top of the pile and unfolded it, careful not to tear it further. The words were carefully written, but not as flowery as Gwyneth's own writing. Alistair felt like he'd seen it somewhere before, though he couldn't quite remember.

_Red Maple,_

_Would that I could forego these absurd names, but I cannot, as I know it evades you as well. All the world is secrets, or so it seems, doesn't it?_

_I have not heard from you in some time, longer than I care to really count in this letter, and less so in my heart. You are my dearest friend, a soul kindred to mine, and without you, I am like the winter, cold and lifeless. Yet I look to the sky, and it warms me, for you are my sun._

_If you fear to write, I would not bring you to some harm by falling to beggary for your unwritten words. I shall imagine them in my head, your voice as smooth as wine and as glorious as high summer. If, however, you can risk it, than it would bring me the greatest joy again._

_My uncle speaks of impending war, and I cannot contain some excitement, yet still I worry that this country is not ready. Say the words that you always know, that I don't fathom how, and make me believe again. You have some great power over me, and I make it more so by telling you, but I cannot deny it._

_No one knows me as you do, and no one shall, for we are like the branches, entwined and inseparable, no matter where our roots lay. _

_You are the light in the darkest sky and I miss you more than meager words can say._

_With Greatest Affection,_

_Silver Birch_

A love letter, as it was intended, despite the use of the word 'friend'. Alistair knew enough of love to recognize it, even in written form. Though the letter before him was poetic enough to make him want to laugh at the prose, but the writer must've cared, to try and think of such comparisons for their beloved.

The names were strange, but as the letter intoned, clearly used to keep identities secret. Alistair knew the writing, and tried again to recall where he'd seen it, though with different meaning behind the scribbles.

He picked up another, and another, all signed the same way, and none of them saying enough to give him an idea of who was writing them. Though 'Red Maple' had written back at some point, as was evidenced in the oldest and newest letter. Then he came to the last one. There were no dates on any of them, but there was a mention of the lady's birthday in late summer.

The words caught him and he read them several times over.

_I'm only sorry that lilacs don't grow in the late summer, perhaps the lady will consent to some perfume with their fragrance, for her birthday? White lilacs make for fine scented powders, or so I was told when I last sent my man to market._

That letter wasn't quite as careful as the others, though still guarded.

Lilacs had long been Gwyneth's favorite, as she had admired the white flowering bushes that lined the walkways of the palace's gardens. Some of those same lilacs had been put into pots and set beside the carpeted aisle made for their wedding.

_Silver Birch . . . Calenhad the _Silver_ Knight. _It hit him as clearly as knowing that Red Maple was in honor of Gwyneth's dark red hair, her birthday in late August as well. Alistair knew who it was, and he should've guessed it earlier, having read some old military orders and political correspondences penned by the same hand.

_Cailan._

Suddenly he felt like he was violating some code, reading the words of his late half-brother, words intended for the woman Alistair was now married to. He hurriedly put them back, fingers fumbling with the twine, and dropping the cinnamon sticks on the floor twice before he tucked them safely back where they belonged.

Just as he'd put the bag back, a loud knock at the door nearly made him jump. The king cleared his throat and straightened his tunic, though it hadn't been mussed overly so. "Ah, yes, yes. Just a moment." His voice sounded guilty to his own ears, and he pushed Gwyneth's ruck sack back behind the dressing screen with his foot, before going to the door.

Fergus Cousland was standing there, face tired and serious. With the manor itself guarded, there was no need for any guards just outside the chamber door, and with apparent privacy, the teyrn got straight to the point. "I've brought her back, and not in the best state. I won't say where I found her, but you have to take my word that she needs some rest. There are more spare chambers, and she's spending the night in one."

Before Alistair could say anything, he was interrupted.

"No, I've not come here to bicker with you. Only to say that Gwyneth isn't a villain here, nor is she a victim. She is what she's always been, but isn't without her own suffering and when you speak to her tomorrow, you need to remember that." Fergus looked more stern than ever he had before.

"Speak with her? I told you . . " Alistair protested, uselessly it seemed.

"You told me that you believe she hates you. That doesn't mean_ I _believe the same thing, and if you care one ounce for my sister, you'll ask her before making any further assumptions." There was no arguing with that sharp silver glare.

"I . . . alright." The king conceded, calling out when Fergus nodded at him and began to turn away. "Wait! Why did you come to tell me? You could've waited until the morning, or let me find out on my own." He was perplexed, as they weren't overly fond of each other.

"Yes, I could've."

A faint smirk was at the corner of Fergus' thin mouth, and he nodded his head as a farewell, walking down the hall as Alistair remained behind, mind just as heavy as before and far more confused.

* * *

The day had dawned overcast, the brightness of the sun hazy through the white cloud cover, but warm. With the light rains of the evening prior, the whole of Highever was covered in a humid blanket of air.

Inside the walls of Brynmor Estate, the occupants were grateful for the old stone and mortar, that kept it a relatively comfortable temperature indoors. Alistair wished he could appreciate that comfort, and certainly Lord and Lady Brynmor were kind hosts, but the circumstances of his life didn't allow for many moments of relaxation.

Fergus hadn't spoken to him much that morning, not adding anything to his abrupt appearance the evening before. He said even less to anyone else, until Gwyneth failed to put in appearance at breakfast. _"Her Majesty is feeling unwell and shall only take tea and biscuits in her chamber."_ Had been the teyrn's brief reply to their hosts, and when he caught Alistair's gaze across the table, he only inclined his head in response to the silent question.

It was understandable, one supposed, to keep the peace by remaining silent, and thereby avoiding an incident when the _real_ reason for Gwyneth's absence was made clear. However, it seemed it was the truth, as confirmed by the maids that wandered out of a chamber where Gwyneth had spent the remainder of the evening.

So he'd been pacing before Gwyneth's door for the past hour, debating whether he'd knock and what he would say if he did. Polished boots passed over the same patch of carpet, until Alistair looked down to see that his repetitive movements had faded it lightly and he stopped, feeling sheepish.

The door creaked open, as the king looked up, startled at the interruption into his thoughts. A petite maid smiled at him briefly, dropping a curtsey along with his honorific, before moving past with an empty tray. Brown eyes followed the woman, until she disappeared around a corner, and Alistair was once again alone in the hall. Distant sounds and the creaking of old flooring was the the only noise to be had, and when he cleared his throat, it sounded so loud that he winced.

Knuckles curled up, only to unfurl twice more, before they rapped at the door. The action had to be repeated before it opened, and Alistair's words of greeting failed when it wasn't another maid that answered, but his wife.

She looked wan, normally bright silver eyes dimmed to a grey as full of haze as the skies outside. Her hair was pinned up away from her face, and she seemed dressed already, from what he could see. Gwyneth watched him for what felt like the longest seconds of his life, before nodding at him. "Come in."

When she moved aside, Alistair could hardly see the room for how dim it was, all the curtains drawn to let in only slivers of light. A few candles were burning at the small vanity in the room, and the king's guts roiled at the sight of a large sheet covering the bulky shape of what had to be the mirror.

_Her eyes wandered again to the broken glass. "She spoke through the mirror, told me . . . told me what he wanted and that he was going to be here soon and we were out of time."_

The horror in her eyes would never leave his mind and seeing what it had done to her didn't make it any easier. Gwyneth was as prone to fear as anyone, but she got past it . . . _and now_, Alistair wasn't so certain.

She was walking away from him to take a seat at a small table, a steaming mug before it. Even from his distance, Alistair could smell it.

"What on Thedas is that?" He wrinkled his nose.

"Some horrid tea that Fergus is making me drink . . . it is meant to _cleanse the body and mind_, or some other rot. It stinks doesn't it? Foul black and pekoe leaves from Antiva. I half wonder if their assassins use it in poisons." Gwyneth made a face as she took another sip, nipping a bite of biscuit before her eyes wandered back to her husband. "What do you want?" It was without the usual malice that had backed that question in the past, and possessed only a mild curiosity.

It was awful to see her so drained of personality, the words more like a practiced speech than natural conversation. What was worse, was that Alistair found himself wishing she was still on the lotus, because then she'd at least be happy. Though, that was a false happiness and did nothing to heal the problems of the mind long term. He'd discovered that during his only experience with the potent drug.

"How are you feeling? We missed you at breakfast. Your brother said you were unwell." It was a poor lure for discussion, but it was all Alistair could think of.

Gwyneth scoffed. "Did he, indeed?" Another sip of a tea, and then she set it aside, staring blankly ahead of her. It went on so long that Alistair almost spoke to break the silence, but she beat him to it. "I can't talk to people right now. I can't look at them, knowing what's coming, and this time, I have no idea how to stop it." She stood up, thumbs rubbing at closed eyelids, and when she opened them, there was some life there. "And I couldn't look at _you_ without seeing Morrigan. I imagine how it must have been for you, spending that night with her, and I can't fathom how you just let her go, with that_ thing _in her belly."

The rage had been building slowly, fuelled by frustration. When her words fell over him, it broke open and all else that he might have been feeling was eclipsed by that red cloud. He grabbed her shoulders in his heated anger. "How dare you accuse me! _You_ convinced me to do it! You stood there and told me it was the only thing that would save us! Now we're in this damn mess and it's all _my_ fault? Its too late to change anything, so you decided to hate me instead, for something all _three_ of us were complicit in!"

As he shook her, Gwyneth's face fell, but at that last shout, she looked up, face blank, but for the threat of tears in her eyes. "Hate you? Is that what you think? No . . . not ever. How many times must I say it? You're my king." A watery smile smoothed her lips, a hand raised to press a palm against one of his cheeks.

"Then why would you rather get lost in your damn lotus than speak to me?" He felt sick over how desperate he sounded, but Alistair couldn't help it. He wanted to understand her, he wanted to help her, so _she_ would help _him_, and they'd have the smallest chance of combating Ferelden's new threat.

"Because, I want to take it all back. So much that I can't bear where we are now, what our actions wrought. How could you just agree with me? Why do you always let me talk you into things?" Gwyneth's eyes were wide on him, imploring and almost just as confused.

'_You have some great power over me...' _Cailan had said in his letter, and Alistair understood that more than he wanted to.

"I don't know Gwyn. You make the most impossible things sound possible. Your words can make men feel like insects or giants, and I don't know how you do it. Sometimes, you scare the hell out of me, but other times I'm so grateful that you have the kind of mind that you do." He sighed, running his fingers through lengthening dark blonde hair.

Alistair thought back to that night, how Gwyneth had asked Leliana to leave his side to speak to him alone. The insanity couldn't be denied; to purposely impregnate Morrigan so the babe would absorb the archdemon's soul, denying the monstrosity entrance into the soul of the Grey Warden that would slay. Such a thing was said to kill the Grey Warden that struck that final blow and Morrigan's ritual was going to save them.

It _had _saved them, but at a terrible cost.

"I guess . . . I guess I didn't want to die, and I didn't want _you _to die." He stared down his wife, locking gazes with her so she might not look away, and she didn't. "Gwyneth, you have to believe that I never thought anything like this would happen. I mean . . . I . . . I knew of course that there was a chance things could turn out . . . badly." Alistair winced, every word sounding like the worst kind of understatement. "But _this_? An old god, an _actual _old god, here in Thedas, and intent on taking you for his bride, to get back some kind of ancient power through the child you could give him? That's crazy! I don't know how fast he'll grow, if he has all of his powers, or what they even are. Those things in Greenfell and who knows what else . . . does he control them or are they just sort of 'there'? I have no idea what to do."

Gwyneth swallowed, her fingers traveling to the neckline of her gown, pulling the carved demon-head ring out, dangling from its chain. "I _still _don't know why you listen to me, but I'm glad you do, because I need you to hear me now."

One finger rubbed over the onyx surface. It was an ugly thing, but she could feel Morrigan's enchantments on it. "That thing, it ripped Morrigan apart to get out, I know that as much as you do. It has terrorized me for so many nights, when I told myself they were just nightmares. Those creatures that called it their 'husband', they murdered my Noble!" Tears ran down her face at the thought of her mabari, now buried with her ancestors, and of all that remained of Morrigan. Her dear friend was now just an enchantment on a ring.

"Gwyn . . ." Alistair tried to console her, but she wasn't done.

"I'm terrified of him. I tried to drown him, but no amount of wine or lotus banished him from my mind. He's powerful, we can be sure it's no weakling that ripped their way back onto the mortal coil. He's ancient, and his motives are almost impossible to know. He's a threat without borders . . . but he's also arrogant."

Alistair gaped at her when she unclasped the protective ring from her neck and tossed it onto the vanity. "Whatever you're thinking, don't! I can't pretend to understand how Morrigan made that thing, but its worked hasn't it? If Fergus knew . . ."

"He _doesn't_ know, and you _can't_ tell him. He loves me too much to let me take this risk." Gwyneth closed her eyes, gathering her courage.

"And what? _I_ don't give a shit about you?" Alistair growled, angry and worried in equal measure.

"No, but you love Ferelden too much to stop me." She smiled at him. "I've had to take a sleeping unguent to get any rest, and if I take a bit more, it should send me to the Fade of Dreams. If I'm prepared, I can be ready for him, I can use his arrogance against him. He thinks I'm stupid, that we're all pathetic mortals."

"Gwyneth . . . no . . . _no_! This is insane!"

"Only two days and I'm nearly mad with fear, and don't tell me he doesn't make you feel the same way, and he's not even a physical threat yet. I'm tired of being afraid, I'm tired of not knowing where the battle lines can be drawn, aren't you?" She didn't wait for an answer. "So, we get some more information, that he'll provide, because he's too proud of himself not to gloat."

She walked to the mirror, tearing the sheet cover from it, glaring into the glass as she opened the jar with her sleeping herbs. "Last night I almost lost myself completely, trying to hide, to run from what it is we face. Couslands don't run, we don't give up, we _never_ concede the high ground."

Alistair knew she was gearing up for something big, and no matter how crazy, she'd manage to convince him. Gwyneth always did, in the end.

There was a smirk that was so often on Gwyneth's face, that many called it a Cousland trademark. That same smirk that'd been missing since Greenfell, and the banshees they'd encountered, curled her mouth. When the young queen turned back to Alistair, it was like a torch had been lit behind her eyes.

"I say, let him show me his cards, and I will cut him with the edge of_ mine_. I say, come and get me, Urthemiel, you son of a bitch!"


	3. Chapter Two: Purgatory

**Disclaimer:** _"Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only._

**Words From The Author:**_ Enjoyed a vacation with a new beau, and it was lovely to not have to do a damn thing if I didn't feel like it. Slept in till whenever and ate whatever I wanted . . . but, that time is over, and so comes the healthier diet and writing time . . . yay! :D_

_Flashback in the beginning isn't italicized, because there's a large portion of the middle that _is _italicized. I'm wondering about that. I know I asked about it in an author's note from Part One, and you all seemed to prefer the flashbacks to be in italics, but with the Fade sequences also in italics, I wonder if flashbacks need to be if they have their own section, separated and dated, and then just italicize them if they are used in small part during 'present tense' sections. I"ll have to fool around with it some more, but this time, that just would've been way too much italics for one chapter._

* * *

**Chapter Two**

**Purgatory**

* * *

**April 9'th, 9:31, Dragon Age **

It was still raining, had been all night, and Alistair swore he could feel the dampness seeping through the old stones of Redcliffe Keep, surrounded as it was by Lake Calenhad, and now the torrent that fell from an angry roiling sky. Not the best of omens for the coming day.

He rested his elbows on his knees, chin sitting in one upturned palm and stared silently across the room where Leliana leaned against an armoire. Eyes of crystal blue watched the would-be king with the same silent study.

It was a long while before either of them said anything.

"_Dead_? Are you . . . are you certain that's what Riordan told you? Maybe . . . " Leliana pursed her mouth, thinking. "Maybe it is just that the Grey Warden who kills the archdemon is naturally at risk, it does seem a deadly battle, but that doesn't mean that death is _unavoidable_."

"Lel . . . you're reaching." The smile he sent her was half chipped away by anxiety, and the ever widening chasm that had opened between them recently.

"Non! I am not! It's . . . " She sighed, shaking her head, copper hair swept back by a worried hand. In the fire of the hearth, the planes of her finely boned faced seemed to have deep hollows. "Oh, mon amour, I don't know that I can do this. I thought the Maker had blessed this path, had wanted me to travel it . . . but now, I am not so certain." When her Orlesian accent was that thick, it was clear she was getting increasingly upset, but her Fereldish was still well mastered. "What if . . . what if Riordan fails? You would die for _her_, wouldn't you?"

Anger mixed with grief, blue eyes all the brighter for the tears forming in them. She swiped them away, turning her head as Alistair got up from the bedside where he'd perched, and reached a hand out to rub her shoulder. Leliana pretended she didn't want him to touch her, but that ended soon enough, and he wrapped his arms around her as she clung to him, cheek pressed to his chest.

"It wouldn't be for Gwyn, it would be for Ferelden. I'd do anything for this country, but you will always be my love, and I'd also do anything to keep _you_ safe." He murmured, closing his eyes to feel the softness of her hair against his jaw.

"What does that safety mean if it costs you your life? Don't ask me to watch you sacrifice yourself, do not!" She wept harder, fingers curling into his tunic, wrinkling the fabric with that desperate grasp, wetting it with her tears.

"Hey, hey, you're talking like it's already a done deal. Riordan knows what he's doing, anyone _that _old has to, right?" He tried to be humorous, but Leliana only sniffled, and he took to stroking her hair. "Look, we've gone into hopeless battles before and came out alive, and we have a lot more than luck on our side this time. We're going to Denerim with Orzammar dwarves, Dalish elves, and trained Circle battle mages. That archdemon doesn't stand a chance. Riordan will gut that ugly bitch, and I'll be back to get a victory kiss from you. You'll see, it'll be just fine."

"Even if he's successful, Riordan will still be dead, won't he? So there won't be a senior Grey Warden, just the two of you again." Leliana laughed, brittle and harsh. "_Just the two of you_, as it will be from now on. There won't _be _a victory kiss, and nothing will be 'just fine' . . . how did it come to this, Alistair?"

There was nothing to say to that, even as he felt her pulling away, eyes imploring him to make everything alright again, but he couldn't. Still, he had to try. "Lel . . . you can't begin to know how hard this is for me, but I will always love . . . "

A rap at the door, sharp and unexpected. The couple jumped, Leliana swiping at her leaking eyes, cheeks reddened and puffy, but there was nothing to be done about that now. She watched Alistair, their moment slipping away, and went to the door herself, when he just stood there, looking sad and overwhelmed.

The hallway was dim, and the sconces behind the woman's head made her dark red hair look more akin to a crown of dried bloody curls.

Leliana sighed ruefully. "Gwyneth."

"I do apologize, but I must confer with Alistair before everyone goes to sleep. It is a Grey Warden matter of much urgency." She peered into the room, noticing the scene she'd come upon, but choosing to overlook it, shoulders straightening up in that perpetual pride the young woman seemed to always posses.

"We were just going to bed, Gwyn. Whatever it is, can wait until morning. I'm not in the mood for any kind of business right now." Alistair groused, rubbing his forehead, looking up only when Gwyneth cleared her throat.

"No, it _can't _wait, and I promise you that you need to hear this." Gwyneth was persistent, ignoring the awkwardness of sharing space with the intemperate couple, in a way that only her ego could manage.

Leliana pasted a fake smile on her face, moving aside to let Gwyneth in, as she started out the door, not giving Alistair time to protest again. "By all means, go about your business. I'll go down to kitchens to get some wine. Then I'll be out of your way, no?" Her overly chipper mask was barely an effort at subtlety and she gave a short bow on her way out. "Your Highness."

With a faint waft of Andraste's Grace powder, she was gone, and Gwyneth only raised a brow as she shut the door, moving a fraction into Alistair's room. "Well, I take it she's still angry with me, then."

"She's not so much angry with _you_, as she is with the whole situation." Alistair provided, miserably, sitting back down on the bedside. "So? What is it? Let's get this over with."

Gwyneth would've normally teased him for his terseness, but it was no time for levity. "How would you like to be certain that the final battle with the archdemon won't kill the three of us, whomever takes that final blow?"

He looked up at her, brown eyes dark and full of confusion, then irritation. "What are you talking about? There isn't any such thing as certainty in battle, you know that. Gwyn, you can't just come in here and . . ."

"Morrigan knows of a way." She watched him as he got up.

"Oh, I see. _Morrigan_ knows, does she?" Alistair shook his head and smirked. "What, some kind of protection spell? I don't think it will make a lick of difference, but if it makes _you _feel better, then by all means . . . and who knows, maybe it'll put Leliana at ease too." He scoffed, his face angry.

"Alistair, listen, it isn't . . ."

"No, Gwyn, _you_ listen! I'm tired of your schemes and her 'miracle' spells, I'm tired of all of it. You know what's worse than no hope? _False_ hope. I could be walking to Denerim to face my death, and even if I survive, then I'm marrying you, and Leliana will be _gone_! Don't you understand that? No matter what happens, I'm going to lose the _love of my life_! So tell Morrigan she can take her protection spells and shove them up her ass."

"You great bloody idiot! Shut up and let me finish!" Gwyneth sniped, eyes hot and just as angry as his. "I'm trying to save both our lives!"

He wasn't expecting _her _anger, maybe some irritation, but certainly not that heated reaction and it made him back down. "Alright, fine, what . . . what is it then?"

"There's a ritual, and she says it has to be performed tonight and it has to be you. I can't, for obvious reasons, and Riordan has been a Warden for too long, his blood has long since been befouled and isn't of any use." Even as she said it, Gwyneth tried not to flinch.

"Any use for _what_? Why can't _you _do it, what reasons, why are they obvious?" The more she evaded it, the more concerned Alistair became. "Damn it, quit being so cryptic and just tell me!"

She stared him down, voice devoid of any emotion Gwyneth was feeling. "You have to conceive a child with her, tonight, and the archdemon's soul will enter the child instead of trying to destroy our own souls. Because of your tainted blood, the beast will recognize the child's spirit as likened to that of a Grey Warden, and due to Morrigan's spell work, that will be far more enticing than any three of us that actually _are _Wardens."

Saying it so matter-of-factly did nothing to make it sound any saner, as evidenced by Alistair's reaction.

He laughed, manic and feeling delirious with it. "I'm sorry, I thought you just said . . ." Watching Gwyneth's face, he sat up as quickly as lightning.

"_What_? Are you bloody _serious_? Andraste Wept! That's the craziest thing I ever heard! Maker! I can't even . . . my . . . Leliana is _just_ downstairs, and you're asking me to . . .?" He began pacing, hands in his hair. "No, by the Black City, I can barely _think_ about that, let alone . . . no. Gwyn, whatever she said to convince you, this is _insane_, and I won't do it . . . I _can't_!"

"Think you that Riordan _wants_ to die? No, but he has served the Wardens for some time, and is ready to do whatever is necessary, but are _you _so ready? You made a promise before the Landsmeet, that you would be their king, just as I promised to rule in kind beside you. Do we forsake that to roll the dice in Denerim? Riordan knows what he is about, more than you and I, or so I suspect, and I have no doubts he will do his utmost to insure that his is the killing strike . . . but what guarantee is there that any of us will make it that far? It isn't as if the darkspawn will be lining up like guests at a wedding, waiting for the Wardens to walk up to the archdemon as a bride would her groom. They'll fight us every step of the way, with everything they have, and that's nothing to scoff at. You know it, and I know it." Gwyneth shook her head. "I cannot say this plan will keep us from being killed along the way, but to get past all of that, and find ourselves at death's door simply to defeat the archdemon? I won't risk that, not if another choice is presented to me, one that is far more likely to save our lives than any vain hope."

"You don't know that it would work! Despite what she says, Morrigan doesn't know either! But you can be damn sure that this has every chance of going badly, I mean, for the Maker's sake! We're talking about an archdemon's _soul_ inside a human infant, there is no way that anything good is in store for us." Alistair pulled his fingers from his hair, wringing them together and watching Gwyneth as he tried to think. "Let's just say that I . . . that I do this crazy thing, what happens to the . . ." He swallowed, trying to get past the bitter lump settling in his throat. "The infant, will it be hurt, and if it isn't, does it become some kind of new archdemon anyway?"

"She says not, that she will raise this child to understand where it comes from and she vows to never return and plague you with the consequences of tonight." Somehow, Gwyneth knew she already had him, that if Alistair had gotten to the point that he would even entertain the notion, that it would just take another small push. Though she wasn't entirely certain that she _wanted_ him to agree.

"Well that just ties it up all nice and neat, doesn't it? Andraste, save me, but I can't believe I'm considering it." Alistair realized that Gwyneth must have already thought about it at length before she came to speak with him, but he had to know. "What about you? I can't imagine you were just like 'Oh sure, Morrigan, no problem, I'll just jaunt on down to Alistair's room and tell him the good news!' I mean, you have to have some doubts too."

"Yes, I have doubts." She looked away from him, folding her arms across her chest as if it'd shield her somehow.

"Then, how can you just accept this?" He would've pressed more, but he saw wet trails running down Gwyneth's cheeks and his voice became somber. "Gwyn, why are you . . ."

"I cannot stand the thought of it, so horrid is the prospect, and I know there will be consequences . . . but I . . . please do not ask me to further plead this case. Haven't I told you enough?" She tried not to sob, but one escaped anyway, a hiccup of grief, fear and indecision. "Please Alistair . . . I don't want to die."

He groaned, feeling sick and helpless. Looking at her was almost painful, and he nodded, just once, to seal his fate. Alistair couldn't say no to a crying woman, it'd always been his weakness, but more so when the lady in question looked at him with those eerie silver eyes, like his soul was laid bare in such an open gaze.

"Alright, we better do this before I change my mind . . . Maker help us all."

* * *

**June 26'th, 9:31, Dragon Age**

_**C**__ool water lapped caressingly against Gwyneth's bare ankles and she found herself smiling, relaxing into the feeling. The world was blissfully slow and free of demands, and the queen knew that wouldn't last long, so she kept her eyes closed, laying back and stretching out her limbs._

_Soon there'd be another privy council, another emergency, another host of monsters coming from the crevices of Ferelden. Though, currently she couldn't recall why she felt so . . . weighted._

_A pause to her mind, the happy little bit of 'nothing' Gwyneth had allowed herself faded away, and that horrid all-consuming thinking of hers resumed._

_With a groan of protestation, she tried to remember why she'd felt like the world was going to swallow her whole, why she'd needed such a moment of relaxation. Something about old gods and unholy brides and the like, she could feel the recollection lolling against her mind like the water around her ankles._

_'Why is it so damned hard to remember? My mind hasn't been so foggy since . . ."_

_Her thoughts fell off a metaphorical precipice, just as Gwyneth opened her eyes with a gasp. The sickly pallor of the sky above was shocking enough that she moved to roll her feet from the water, and nearly went over the edge of an _actual_ precipice. She screamed, the sound echoing within the grotesque stretched landscape of the Fade, hands scrabbling at the worn wooden dock she'd been laying on._

_It fell off into the thin air, the pond at the end existing with the impossible gravity of the dreamscape world she was in, a link between the mortal and immortal plane. It was a place of sleeping minds, and for mages, a trap that lured them with the promises of the demons that stalked the Maker's purgatory._

_She got to her knees, feeling like the air was gone from her lungs, though Gwyneth knew it wasn't actual air she was breathing. Everything there was confusing, stuck halfway between existing and not. Just as she was._

_During the Blight, she'd traveled with her companions into Kinloch Hold, beset by the demons unleashed by the madman Uldred, a troubled mage if ever there was one. Even Uldred had lost his soul to the creatures he'd conjured, as they came to hunger for the life they could only obtain by way of the mortal plane. _

_One such demon, an evil spirit of sloth, had nearly consumed Gwyneth's mind, along with her companions, and it was only because she was so stubborn that she wasn't fooled. The same saving grace that Morrigan had possessed._

_Never had Gwyneth been so grateful for her parents refusal to let her indulge in fairytales, as she was that fateful day. For if her mind had been prone to fancies, she wouldn't have so obstinately refused the intrusion into her thoughts, and the fake 'reality' the demon had woven. She wasn't, however, under any illusions that had she the misfortune of being born a mage, that she'd have been able to resist the even greater allure of power._

_Like all things, power came with a cost, and the one selling it might not have the best of motives. A truth that many unfortunate mages had learned too late, in the circle tower._

_Standing up gingerly, Gwyneth appraised herself, to find she was wearing the same nightgown that she'd worn while trying to fall asleep. She'd intentionally wanted to wander the Fade of Dreams to lure Urthemiel there, where he'd come to 'play' with her before. Without Morrigan's protective ring, the queen was positive the old god would manifest himself. She wasn't so certain of her control, as a sleeping mind certainly cannot posses the abilities it has when a person is fully conscious._

_Her hope that by thinking about the Fade before she fell asleep, the depth of that sleep aided by a potent sleeping draft, that she'd have more control there, had come perilously close to being dashed away. It was easy . . . . so, so easy, to lose yourself in the Fade, and Gwyneth should've remembered that._

_There was nowhere to go, standing on the hovering pond and its lone dock, as the queen stared out into the yellowed white sky, narrowing her eyes on the Black City, misshapen towers always visible in the distance of that plane. 'What had it been like, in its once golden glory? The Maker alive in every way?'_

_"Your 'Maker' was so full of himself, when he made this place, created the spirits within. They will not come near when I'm amongst them, when they can feel the presence of a _true_ god. Everything I touch, even in this place, carries the mark of my scent, the essence of power." That voice, ethereal and caressing, like the smooth edge of a dagger before it cuts._

_Gwyneth was afraid to turn around, even as she felt him walk up behind her. Her skin prickled at the nearness, and she had no desire to congratulate herself for being right. She'd told Alistair she knew he'd come to her in the Fade, but knowing and wishing were two different things._

_"Morgreth Urthemiel." She used both his Avvar and Imperial names, meaning to sound uncaring, but the fear wove itself in the form of a whisper, and the queen could almost feel the old god smiling._

_His long hair was just as dark an ebony as it had been before, swept back over wide shoulders, the few braided strands amongst it captured at their ends by claw shaped caps. The tattered robes he'd worn before seemed in better condition, maybe a reflection of his growing power, and they barely made a noise when he moved. "Yes, as you knew it would be, though I think you meant to have some control in this place, but . . . " He scolded her, as a father would a child. "You've been naughty, too much lotus, too much wine, not enough sleep. Your mind is foggy, my pretty, witty Gwyn."_

_He'd always used Cailan's old nickname for her, since he'd picked it out of her memory as easily as an apple plucked from a tree. Though Cailan had been affectionate, Urthemiel's use of it was a cruel mockery, and even after so long, Gwyneth's heart clenched, more so as she felt his arms go about her waist. She shuddered, flinching against him._

_"Look at it, your Black City, and know what my followers did for me, how much they loved me, and the power I gave them. We toppled the false god's kingdom, and it was only through foul trickery that he sent us away, changed us, turned my beauty into a horrid misconception of a dragon's grandeur!" Urthemiel forced Gwyneth to look at him, shaking her, as burning white-gold eyes bore into her own. "Tell me, is that fair? That we should be punished for our ambition, because your little maker was upset that he'd been bested? I believe you humans call that 'bad form'."_

_Gwyneth found her voice, staring him down with a bravery she didn't quite feel. "Bad form refers to sportsmanship, to not following the rules of an honor code. While this may all be sport to you, it surely isn't for anyone else, and for all your eons of life, you know _nothing_ of honor!"_

_He scoffed, the accusation barely phasing him, lips curling high into the corners. "What is 'honor' but a lie you mortals keep telling yourselves, so you can believe that you aren't all just chaotic barbarians? Honor is a parlor trick, my fair Gwyn, power is the only thing that's real. But you know that . . ." He pressed a flat palm above her breast, talons scraping against a collar bone as she made a small noise of revulsion. "Here, in your heart, you know what it is that you want. You pretend that your intrigues and plans are only intended to give birth to a new era for your country, but that isn't the limit of your ambition. It's power you crave, my sweet, yet you fear to truly grasp it." The god's voice whispered darkly at her ear. "Even now, though you grieve for your dead witch, you have silently accepted it as consequences of the journey toward true supremacy. After all, you can't make wine without crushing some grapes."_

_His laughter rolled out, echoing into the empty sky of the Fade, and Gwyneth felt sick at his amusement. Morrigan was _dead_, and he would spit on her as if she was nothing. She knew she should play it out, get as much from him as she could, but she couldn't enjoy the game, not with Morrigan gone._

_Silver eyes narrowed on the Black City, thinking about finding Morrigan in the Fade once before, the twisted towers hovering in the background. The Wilder mage had known that the thing taking Flemeth's face wasn't her mother, and had scoffed at the attempt, knowing the sloth demon's trickery for what it was. Morrigan hadn't believed in fairytales either, but she'd believed in Gwyneth. Her last moments spent reaching out to her former companion, to give her a chance to defeat the being that loomed over her._

_"Why? Why kill her, when she could have been of some use to you? Morrigan was a powerful mage, you know that, or you wouldn't be here now. Surely she could've had a purpose far better than just dying." The words were clipped, but Gwyneth managed to make her curiosity sound genuine._

_Urthemiel cocked his head to side, like a bird figuring out a puzzle . . . or a dragon. "Well, well, look at you. Always thinking, always trying to put everything together. So, clever girl, tell me what you think I should've done with her, since you've clearly given it a lot of thought." His accent was so thick and strange, but his common tongue was nigh on impeccable._

_"I am certain that I don't know, but then, _I'm_ not the one that claims to be an old god." She snipped, almost smirking if not for the dangerous glint in Urthemiel's inhuman eyes._

_"Claims?" That godly voice coiled in displeasure and challenge._

_Beneath their feet was no longer a dock, at the end of a suspended pond, but a clearing of wet grass, and above, a night sky glittering with stars and a quarter moon. The Fade had been reshaped, and Gwyneth knew it wasn't _her_ doing. She could smell water, hear it gushing._

_"The Calenhad Straight, I believe, shored up for winter soon to come, but still running wild. Lake Calenhad's northern shore just to your south, and you trying to convince your fellow Warden that it worked just as well to take the Imperial Highway, ancient though it is. You said it still remained, that you should put it to use . . ." Urthemiel's voice faded away as Gwyneth's came to replace it._

_"If you'd stop being so pigheaded, you'll see that no one cares if we use the highway!" Gwyneth's image in the distance made her feel strange, a perfect copy of her past self that she could watch and hear. Alistair was there as well, conjured from memory, and she felt her eyes stinging to see Noble at her side, while she had argued with that stubborn man._

_"Look, Gwyn, I just think we don't have to use it just because it's there! It doesn't feel right, I mean, sure if we had no other choice, but there's a road right down here at ground level! Do you know how many slaves _died_ to build that damn highway?" Alistair, as impossible as always, and the memory almost brought a smile to her face._

_"No, and neither do you! Why couldn't you have drowned on the way back across the lake? It'd have saved me a lot of trouble!" Gwyneth's image barked, and the present woman quirked a brow at the odd experience of watching herself. Had she really threatened him so often?_

_She remembered it, they had been on the way back from the circle tower, taking the western shore to Redcliffe to save the young Lord Connor Guerrein. A small host of mages traveled with them, the First Enchanter himself watched over by a couple of templars, on their trip to rid Connor of the demon possessing him._

_Urthemiel had picked it out of her head, as he'd done before, and just as it was then, Gwyneth felt violated by the intrusion. Memories were supposed to be private, but he just took them, as if he had some right._

_"Why are you showing me this?" She didn't take her eyes off the scene, looking around at the figment of a camp and a night long since gone._

_"Do you see her, your precious Morrigan? Secreted away in the trees, not even bothering to put up that poor excuse of a tent. The templars made her nervous. Your 'powerful witch' afraid of men in tin suits." He whispered caressingly, taking Gwyneth's chin in one long palm, to turn her head in the direction he wanted, and there she was._

_Morrigan was huddled amidst the trees, the black grimoire she'd absconded from First Enchanter Irving's quarters back at Kinloch Hold, held protectively in her gloved grasp. A book she believed was once her mother's, though no one knew how the circle tower had gotten a hold of it. She was absorbed in the pages, but she looked up to watch Gwyneth and Alistair arguing, a curious look in those eerie golden eyes._

_"This is the moment she decided, the first thought that would seal her fate. Women were never her fancy, and if they had been, her mother would've beaten such thoughts out of her. Yet, you were fine and fair, a well favored thing, or so she'd thought. More so after your experiences in the little mage's prison. You had seen through the demon's illusions, just as she had, and more than that, you'd managed to find her, to find all of them." Urthemiel stroked Gwyneth's curls back, lips pressed to her ear as he spoke, voice soothing and deep, though there was malice buried there._

_Gwyneth stalked away from Alistair, in that memory, but he grabbed her arm, pulling her back as he whispered, almost smiling. Morrigan watched, narrowing her eyes at the pair of them._

_"Gwyn, wait! Come on, you get angry so fast. I just . . . I wanted to thank you, for all this. You could've taken the easier way out, but you didn't, and I . . . well, I appreciate it." Alistair tried to be charming, but he'd had the wrong target._

_Gwyneth had snorted, still displeased. "Make of it what you will, but I'm not doing this for _you_."_

_"No, I know that, I do. It's just . . ." He was interrupted by her terse reply._

_"I will never abandon another child . . . . do you hear me? Never!" She'd stalked away then, angry with something a lot deeper than Alistair and his annoyances . . . her own guilt._

_Morrigan turned her head, watching Gwyneth walk away, and spared a hot glare for Alistair, before looking down at her book. There was a ring around her neck, hidden beneath her robes, apparently, because Gwyneth had never seen it before now. Looking at it, the darkness of the stones, the carved demons . . . it was the ring Morrigan later enchanted and sent to her for protection._

_That had to be wrong, had to be some creation of Urthemiel's because Gwyneth remembered none of that. She'd barely even spoken to Morrigan that night, and she certainly hadn't noticed the mage watching her._

_With a gasp she realized it was because those weren't _her _memories Urthemiel had stolen to paint the Fade . . . they were Morrigan's. Her eyes hurt from holding back her grief, worsened by the false sympathy from the heartless being behind her. "I don't want to see this anymore."_

_"Perhaps something else then? It is easy enough. How about the night my shell was conceived? Haven't you always wondered what it was like between them, if Alistair enjoyed that time with Morrigan out of spite, if he somehow knew of your own feelings for the mage? Or did you hide those away out of shame?" He didn't even have to move, as the Fade shaped itself from his intentions, from the thoughts of others that the old god had taken._

_"No, no, stop . . ." Gwyneth's protests were weak, and she hated herself for it, the morbid curiosity in her creeping up._

_It wasn't them, just images, only images. Gwyneth told herself that, over and over, as Morrigan and Alistair's shades began to take form. A fire crackled in a hearth, the only noise in a spare bedroom of Redcliffe Castle. It illuminated their bodies, Alistair trying not to look as Morrigan slipped her robes down the length of her body._

_The queen grimaced, feeling sick. "No, I don't want to see this. Stop it."_

_"But it was all for _you_, didn't you know that, silly girl? They _fucked_ each other . . . for _you_, and it was that act, your secret agreement, that killed your witch. For, I would not have been here, otherwise. I am the inevitable result of your attempt to cheat death, and you knew it from the very moment the idea was proposed." He kept her chin imprisoned in his palm, forcing her head to face the direction of the scene playing out before her, even if he couldn't force her eyes open._

_Tears slid down her cheeks, conjured as they may have been in that place, they felt real enough, as Gwyneth wept. "I didn't . . . . I didn't know." It was barely a whisper, choked with grief._

_"I think you _did,_ pretty, witty Gwyn. I think you knew, _exactly_!" He stroked her tears away, as if he cared, even as the ends of sharp talons scraped lightly against her cheek, leaving pale ruddy lines in their wake. "It worked, did it not? For you are alive, you and your mortal king both. You knew there was a price to pay, you said as much to Morrigan that very night. Do not weep, now that the cost of that ritual has come to fruition."_

_Urthemiel crooned, the cruel smile on his face the only evidence that he felt no sympathy. "She loved you, even if she could never say it, not even to herself, until those last moments when she knew her life was ending. Yet, still, not a word of it to you, in that mirror, just her pathetic attempts to 'save' you, and for what? Your destiny is nothing you need to be saved from." He gestured to the pair before them, neither smiling as they joined each other on the bed, clothes tossed aside far easier than feelings could ever be._

_"That's why she did it, because your witch could not endure even the _idea _of your death, and she feared it as she'd rarely feared anything. All her miserable life, no one had ever loved, poor, wild little Morrigan, except for you of course . . . and you let her die to save your own skin. If nothing else, your talent for self-preservation, at the cost of those you profess to care about, is most impressive." He laughed, the sound rumbling loudly, as if it were improperly contained by the size of Urthemiel's body._

_Gwyneth couldn't see through her tears, the Fade more blurry than it was on its own, but she could hear with perfect clarity, and snarled, fighting through the guilt and heart-break. "I didn't 'let her die', it was _you_, you killed her, ripped her open just as she said you would. Morrigan was no fool, and neither am I. We only miscalculated, a grave miscalculation that I deeply regret, far more than a thing like you could possibly understand. That error cost Morrigan her life, but it will not cost me mine or Alistair's, it will not be in vain, because I know."_

_Urthemiel tutted at her, clicking his forked tongue. "Oh, and what it is you think you know?"_

_"I know you're afraid of the bones of your kin." Gwyneth turned her head, even as he let go in surprise, and she smiled at him. _

_His lips curled in a vicious snarl, eyes blazing with rage as he grabbed her shoulders. "Lies! The last hopes of a dying woman, spoken with the garbled thoughts of a dim mind!"_

"_No, no, I don't believe that. It's the truth, and I'm going to find a way to use it." Her smile grew wider, the taste of victory on her tongue, but it was short lived. Eyes went wide, Morgreth's face reflected in the silver irises as they dilated, as one of his hands wrapped around her neck._

"_You insolent whore! To come here and threaten _me_, a GOD!" His voice changed, rumbling with the very darkness of his immortal soul. He thrust her out over the edge of a precipice, over the limitless sickly white of the raw Fade, the world Urthemiel had created crumbling until there was only the smallest bit of land for him to stand on. "I am Morgreth the Undying, Urthemiel the Unbound and I will have my victory. I will put the maker to ruin, wherever he is hiding, and lay waste to his followers!"_

_Gwyneth struggled, trying to scream, but not possessing the ability to, the god's fingers like a vice around her throat. Her hands scrabbled over his knuckles, uselessly. Beneath her bare feet, the air of the Fade roiled and turned black, filling with the stench of charred earth and a coming tempest. From that hideous mire, came screaming, a cacophony of voices, and when she looked down, Gwyneth struggled all the more._

_The clouds had parted to reveal a red pulsing abyss, the fleshy walls of it wriggling from the naked victims trapped inside that unholy embrace. Grasping, and screaming, they tried to reach up, as if begging for mercy._

"_Do you see what happens to those that try to deny me what is rightfully mine? I have their souls, little mortal, and I keep them for all eternity, as I shall do with yours if you continue to defy me. I will leave you there to rot, to scream for all the ages of the endless life I"ll give you!" He hung her out further, as she writhed to get away, from him and the horrid trap beneath her._

"_You _shall _give me a son, and from him I will take back the last of my stolen power, and will be made whole. Lonely marshes shall weep for their lost Nahasha, as the Sea of Ash spreads and consumes the world, and all shall once again fall upon their knees in prayer for the Great Urthemiel . . . and no scheming mortal bitch will stop me!" He roared at her, as he let go._

_Gwyneth screamed, falling through the air as the souls of the damned reached for the queen. "Wake me up! Alistair! Wake me up!" She felt their hands tearing at her, as she fell, farther and farther . . ._

* * *

Her shrieks filled the bedroom, even as she realized someone was shaking her. Gwyneth fought them off, panicked, before she came to her senses, Alistair's worried brown eyes staring at her. She let herself sink against him, as his arms held her, murmuring above her head.

"It's alright, it's okay now, I've got you, Gwyn. I don't how you managed to control it like that, but I heard you calling for me." His voice was soothing, and calm, genuine in a way Urthemiel never had been.

Composing herself, Gwyneth bolted up from the bed, searching frantically for the ring Morrigan had given her, fingers fumbling with it once she had the chain it hung on. "I need to wear this again, I have to have it! Why won't it clasp?" She cried with frustration, kindled by her fear.

"Hey, calm down. I'll get it for you." Alistair was careful about how he came up behind her, slowly reaching for the clasp to take it from her shaking hands. "Here, just relax, I can handle this." He half suspected she was going to refuse, but her arms fell at her sides, as she let him hook the chain. "There, see? I'm not such a fumbling idiot _all_ the time." He would've smiled in self deprecation, until he saw the marks.

A gray-purple ring encircled her neck, the lines of her skin looking all the whiter, where they peeked through the discoloration.

"Gwyn . . . what is this?"

Her hands traveled up, until they were lain over his, seeking her own neck through Alistair's fingers. Gwyneth's whole body tensed up, as Urthemiel's actions came to the forefront of her mind. "He . . . He choked me, I thought he meant to kill me for a moment, and a death in the Fade . . ." That voice, often so full of self-importance grew smaller and smaller, until there was barely any volume to it at all. "It doesn't matter. He did it once before, left a mark on me, just a bite though. It healed, and so will these."

Alistair gaped. "What do you mean 'just'? That bastard touches you in the Fade, hurts you, and it actually leaves _marks _on you in the real world? You say it happened before, so you knew that when you talked me into helping you with this craziness, and you just went ahead with it anyway? Andraste's mercy, Gwyneth, what if he _had_ killed you?"

"He needs me too much, or he _thinks_ he does." Her eyes looked forward, staring at nothing. "It was a risk, but I had to do it, so whatever marks he leaves on me are worth it, if it will give us even the smallest bit of knowledge."

"No, no! Nothing is worth _this_! It won't happen again, I won't let you!" Alistair's anger was focused at a being he couldn't touch, and leaving it _un_focused had his nerves jumping madly beneath his skin. "I have to . . . I have to do _some_thing. Your neck, Gwyn . . ." The king's eyes softened, full of pity and sorrow. He reached out lightly to stroke the ugly purplish bruises that had formed on her skin, as if wishing them away, but he couldn't.

Her hands moved to grasp Alistair's fingers again, and leaned back into him, accepting his support. "We knew that ritual would have a heavy price. It has already cost Morrigan her life, and that of the population of Greenfell. We can't go back Alistair, we can't change it, but we can do whatever it takes to fix this mess before it is too late for all of us. If we can't, then I fear that this . . . beastly creature, won't stop until he has burned Thedas to ashes." She shuddered, lids pressed down, but the darkness behind them only let her imagine that horrible writhing abyss even easier. "He's so . . . so full of _hate_, Alistair. I've never encountered anything like it, not even all those months I spent devising horrible deaths for Rendon Howe."

Alistair's voice was like a slow rumble through his broad chest, as his chin rested on her shoulder, arms hooked beneath her ribs. "Well, he's had a lifetime to stew and I don't think all those years spent as an archdemon made him any more forgiving."

"No, they didn't."

"But we started this together, Gwyn, and that's how we will end it. I won't give up, until I've made sure you're safe. What kind of king would I be if I can't even protect my own wife?" He wanted more than anything to comfort her. He hated it when she played head games with him, he hated how snooty she was, but more than that, Alistair hated to see Gwyneth look so defeated.

"And what if you can't? Your father never had to face an old god, just a host of Orlesians and a handful of darkspawn, what? Once, twice? Calenhad united the land from scattered tribes and early lordlings, and they say the Silver Knight was the mightiest of Theirins, but he didn't defeat an evil this great, either. No King of Ferelden has ever faced something on this scale. Morgreth or Urthemiel or whatever he chooses to call himself . . . he's a _god_." Gwyneth despised the sound of her own voice, even more when she started shaking again, remembering Urthemiel's awful words, the images he had terrorized her with, and more frightening than all of it, was his desire.

"I have to believe that the mighty can fall, even if they're gods. The Maker found a way to hold them back, but it wasn't the Maker that defeated the archdemon at Denerim, it was just a couple of junior Grey Wardens . . . and their friends." He smiled briefly, thinking about those days of traveling and planning, and the frown came when Alistair remembered all that they had lost.

"That would be easier if we knew what we were dealing with. We don't have much, but my trip to the Fade wasn't worthless. Morrigan tried to tell me, with her last words, the importance of the bones of old gods, how they worried the son of a whore that killed her. I teased him with it, drawing him out, which earned me these bruises, but it did prove that she wasn't far from the truth." Gwyneth fought her way past the pit of dread that Urthemiel always caused, and turned to look up at her husband with intent. "And I know that an old god would only really be afraid of one thing . . . that which could cause his own demise."


End file.
